Marriage is rewarded with some honourable distinction, which celibacy is
forbidden to usurp. Some such information a bracelet might afford. The
ladies might enrol themselves in distinct classes, and carry in open
view the emblems of their order. The bracelet of the authoress may
exhibit the Muses in a grove of laurel; the housewife may show Penelope
with her web; the votaress of a single life may carry Ursula with her
troop of virgins; the gamester may have Fortune with her wheel; and
those women _that have no character at all_ may display a field of white
enamel, as imploring help to fill up the vacuity.
There is a set of ladies who have outlived most animal pleasures, and,
having nothing rational to put in their place, solace with cards the
loss of what time has taken away, and the want of what wisdom, having
never been courted, has never given. For these I know not how to provide
a proper decoration. They cannot be numbered among the gamesters; for
though they are always at play, they play for nothing, and never rise to
the dignity of hazard or the reputation of skill. They neither love nor
are loved, and cannot be supposed to contemplate any human image with
delight. Yet, though they despair to please, they always wish to be
fine, and, therefore, cannot be without a bracelet. To this sisterhood I
can recommend nothing more likely to please them than the king of clubs,
a personage very comely and majestick, who will never meet their eyes
without reviving the thought of some past or future party, and who may
be displayed, in the act of dealing, with grace and propriety.
But the bracelet which might be most easily introduced into general use
is a small convex mirror, in which the lady may see herself whenever she
shall lift her hand. This will be a perpetual source of delight. Other
ornaments are of use only in publick, but this will furnish
gratifications to solitude. This will show a face that must always
please; she who is followed by admirers will carry about her a perpetual
justification of the publick voice; and she who passes without notice
may appeal from prejudice to her own eyes.
But I know not why the privilege of the bracelet should be confined to
women; it was in former ages worn by heroes in battle; and, as modern
soldiers are always distinguished by splendour of dress, I should
rejoice to see the bracelet added to the cockade.
In hope of this ornamental innovation, I have spent some thoughts upon
military bracelets. There is no passion more heroick than love; and,
therefore, I should be glad to see the sons of England marching in the
field, every man with the picture of a woman of honour bound upon his
hand. But since in the army, as every where else, there will always be
men who love nobody but themselves, or whom no woman of honour will
permit to love her, there is a necessity of some other distinctions and
devices.
I have read of a prince who, having lost a town, ordered the name of it
to be every morning shouted in his ear till it should be recovered. For
the same purpose I think the prospect of Minorca might be properly worn
on the hands of some of our generals: others might delight their
countrymen, and dignify themselves, with a view of Rochfort as it
appeared to them at sea: and those that shall return from the conquest
of America, may exhibit the warehouse of Frontenac, with an inscription
denoting, that it was taken in less than three years by less than twenty
thousand men.
I am, Sir, &c.
TOM TOY.
No. 40. SATURDAY, JANUARY 20, 1759.
The practice of appending to the narratives of publick transactions more
minute and domestick intelligence, and filling the newspapers with
advertisements, has grown up by slow degrees to its present state.
Genius is shown only by invention. The man who first took advantage of
the general curiosity that was excited by a siege or battle, to betray
the readers of news into the knowledge of the shop where the best puffs
and powder were to be sold, was undoubtedly a man of great sagacity, and
profound skill in the nature of man. But when he had once shown the way,
it was easy to follow him; and every man now knows a ready method of
informing the publick of all that he desires to buy or sell; whether his
wares be material or intellectual; whether he makes clothes, or teaches
the mathematicks; whether he be a tutor that wants a pupil, or a pupil
that wants a tutor.
Whatever is common is despised. Advertisements are now so numerous that
they are very negligently perused, and it is, therefore, become
necessary to gain attention by magnificence of promises, and by
eloquence sometimes sublime and sometimes pathetick.
Promise, large promise, is the soul of an advertisement. I remember a
_wash-ball_ that had a quality truly wonderful--it gave an _exquisite
edge to the razor_. And there are now to be sold, _for ready money
only_, some _duvets for bed-coverings, of down, beyond comparison
superior to what is called otter-down_, and indeed such, that its _many
excellencies cannot be here set forth_. With one excellence we are made
acquainted--_it is warmer than four or five blankets, and lighter than
one._
There are some, however, that know the prejudice of mankind in favour of
modest sincerity. The vender of the _beautifying fluid_ sells a lotion
that repels pimples, washes away freckles, smooths the skin, and plumps
the flesh; and yet, with a generous abhorrence of ostentation,
confesses, that it will not _restore the bloom of fifteen to a lady of
fifty_.
The true pathos of advertisements must have sunk deep into the heart of
every man that remembers the zeal shown by the seller of the _anodyne
necklace_, for the ease and safety of _poor teething infants_, and the
affection with which he warned every mother, that _she would never
forgive herself_, if her infant should perish without a necklace.
I cannot but remark to the celebrated author who gave, in his
notifications of the camel and dromedary, so many specimens of the
genuine sublime, that there is now arrived another subject yet more
worthy of his pen. _A famous Mohawk Indian warrior, who took_ Dieskaw
_the French general prisoner, dressed in the same manner with the native
Indians when they go to war, with his face and body painted, with his
scalping-knife, tom-axe, and all other implements of war! a sight worthy
the curiosity of every true Briton!_ This is a very powerful
description; but a critick of great refinement would say, that it
conveys rather _horrour_ than _terrour_. An Indian, dressed as he goes
to war, may bring company together; but if he carries the scalping-knife
and tom-axe, there are many true Britons that will never be persuaded to
see him but through a grate.
It has been remarked by the severer judges, that the salutary sorrow of
tragick scenes is too soon effaced by the merriment of the epilogue; the
same inconvenience arises from the improper disposition of
advertisements. The noblest objects may be so associated as to be made
ridiculous. The camel and dromedary themselves might have lost much of
their dignity between _the true flower of mustard_ and the _original
Daffy's elixir_; and I could not but feel some indignation when I found
this illustrious Indian warrior immediately succeeded by _a fresh parcel
of Dublin butter_.
The trade of advertising is now so near to perfection, that it is not
easy to propose any improvement. But as every art ought to be exercised
in due subordination to the publick good, I cannot but propose it as a
moral question to these masters of the publick ear, Whether they do not
sometimes play too wantonly with our passions, as when the registrar of
lottery-tickets invites us to his shop by an account of the prize which
he sold last year; and whether the advertising controvertists do not
indulge asperity of language without any adequate provocation; as in the
dispute about _straps for razors_, now happily subsided, and in the
altercation which at present subsists concerning _eau de luce_?
In an advertisement it is allowed to every man to speak well of himself,
but I know not why he should assume the privilege of censuring his
neighbour. He may proclaim his own virtue or skill, but ought not to
exclude others from the same pretensions.
Every man that advertises his own excellence should write with some
consciousness of a character which dares to call the attention of the
publick. He should remember that his name is to stand in the same paper
with those of the king of Prussia and the emperour of Germany, and
endeavour to make himself worthy of such association.
Some regard is likewise to be paid to posterity. There are men of
diligence and curiosity who treasure up the papers of the day merely
because others neglect them, and in time they will be scarce. When these
collections shall be read in another century, how will numberless
contradictions be reconciled? and how shall fame be possibly distributed
among the tailors and bodice-makers of the present age?
Surely these things deserve consideration. It is enough for me to have
hinted my desire that these abuses may be rectified; but such is the
state of nature, that what all have the right of doing, many will
attempt without sufficient care or due qualifications[1].
[1] A history of newspapers, more diffuse than the chronological series
in Nichols' Literary Anecdotes, Vol. iv. is desirable. See Preface.
No. 41. SATURDAY, JANUARY 27, 1759.
The following letter relates to an affliction perhaps not necessary to
be imparted to the publick; but I could not persuade myself to suppress
it, because I think, I know the sentiments to be sincere, and I feel no
disposition to provide for this day any other entertainment.
At, tu quisquis eris, miseri qui cruda poetae
Credideris fletu funera digna tuo,
Haec postrema tibi sit flendi causa, fluatque
Lenis inoffenso vitaque morsque gradu. OVID.
Mr. Idler,
Notwithstanding the warnings of philosophers, and the daily examples of
losses and misfortunes which life forces upon our observation, such is
the absorption of our thoughts in the business of the present day, such
the resignation of our reason to empty hopes of future felicity, or such
our unwillingness to foresee what we dread, that every calamity comes
suddenly upon us, and not only presses us as a burden, but crushes as a
blow.
There are evils which happen out of the common course of nature, against
which it is no reproach not to be provided. A flash of lightning
intercepts the traveller in his way. The concussion of an earthquake
heaps the ruins of cities upon their inhabitants. But other miseries
time brings, though silently yet visibly, forward by its even lapse,
which yet approach us unseen, because we turn our eyes away, and seize
us unresisted, because we could not arm ourselves against them but by
setting them before us.
That it is vain to shrink from what cannot be avoided, and to hide that
from ourselves which must some time be found, is a truth which we all
know, but which all neglect, and, perhaps, none more than the
speculative reasoner, whose thoughts are always from home, whose eye
wanders over life, whose fancy dances after meteors of happiness kindled
by itself, and who examines every thing rather than his own state.
Nothing is more evident than that the decays of age must terminate in
death; yet there is no man, says Tully, who does not believe that he may
yet live another year; and there is none who does not, upon the same
principle, hope another year for his parent or his friend: but the
fallacy will be in time detected; the last year, the last day, must
come. It has come, and is past. The life which made my own life pleasant
is at an end, and the gates of death are shut upon my prospects.
The loss of a friend upon whom the heart was fixed, to whom every wish
and endeavour tended, is a state of dreary desolation, in which the mind
looks abroad impatient of itself, and finds nothing but emptiness and
horrour. The blameless life, the artless tenderness, the pious
simplicity, the modest resignation, the patient sickness, and the quiet
death, are remembered only to add value to the loss, to aggravate regret
for what cannot be amended, to deepen sorrow for what cannot be
recalled.
These are the calamities by which Providence gradually disengages us
from the love of life. Other evils fortitude may repel, or hope may
mitigate; but irreparable privation leaves nothing to exercise
resolution or flatter expectation. The dead cannot return, and nothing
is left us here but languishment and grief.
Yet such is the course of nature, that whoever lives long must outlive
those whom he loves and honours. Such is the condition of our present
existence, that life must one time lose its associations, and every
inhabitant of the earth must walk downward to the grave alone and
unregarded, without any partner of his joy or grief, without any
interested witness of his misfortunes or success.
Misfortune, indeed, he may yet feel; for where is the bottom of the
misery of man? But what is success to him that has none to enjoy it?
Happiness is not found in self-contemplation; it is perceived only when
it is reflected from another.
We know little of the state of departed souls, because such knowledge is
not necessary to a good life. Reason deserts us at the brink of the
grave, and can give no further intelligence. Revelation is not wholly
silent. "There is joy in the angels of Heaven over one sinner that
repenteth;" and, surely, this joy is not incommunicable to souls
disentangled from the body, and made like angels.
Let hope therefore dictate, what revelation does not confute, that the
union of souls may still remain; and that we who are struggling with
sin, sorrow, and infirmities, may have our part in the attention and
kindness of those who have finished their course, and are now receiving
their reward.
These are the great occasions which force the mind to take refuge in
religion: when we have no help in ourselves, what can remain but that we
look up to a higher and a greater Power? and to what hope may we not
raise our eyes and hearts, when we consider that the greatest POWER is
the BEST?
Surely there is no man who, thus afflicted, does not seek succour in the
_gospel_, which has brought _life and immortality to light_. The
precepts of Epicurus, who teaches us to endure what the laws of the
universe make necessary, may silence, but not content us. The dictates
of Zeno, who commands us to look with indifference on external things,
may dispose us to conceal our sorrow, but cannot assuage it. Real
alleviation of the loss of friends, and rational tranquillity, in the
prospect of our own dissolution, can be received only from the promises
of Him in whose hands are life and death, and from the assurance of
another and better state, in which all tears will be wiped from the
eyes, and the whole soul shall be filled with joy. Philosophy may infuse
stubbornness, but Religion only can give patience[1].
I am, &c.
[1] See Preface.
No. 42. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 1759.
The subject of the following letter is not wholly unmentioned by the
Rambler. The Spectator has also a letter containing a case not much
different. I hope my correspondent's performance is more an effort of
genius, than an effusion of the passions; and that she hath rather
attempted to paint some possible distress, than really feels the evils
which she has described.
TO THE IDLER.
Sir,
There is a cause of misery, which, though certainly known both to you
and your predecessors, has been little taken notice of in your papers; I
mean the snares that the bad behaviour of parents extends over the paths
of life which their children are to tread after them; and as I make no
doubt but the Idler holds the shield for virtue, as well as the glass
for folly; that he will employ his leisure hours as much to his own
satisfaction in warning his readers against a danger, as in laughing
them out of a fashion: for this reason I am tempted to ask admittance
for my story in your paper, though it has nothing to recommend it but
truth, and the honest wish of warning others to shun the track which, I
am afraid, may lead me at last to ruin.
I am the child of a father, who, having always lived in one spot in the
country where he was born, and having had no genteel education himself,
thought no qualifications in the world desirable but as they led up to
fortune, and no learning necessary to happiness but such as might most
effectually teach me to make the best market of myself. I was
unfortunately born a beauty, to a full sense of which my father took
care to flatter me; and having, when very young, put me to a school in
the country, afterwards transplanted me to another in town, at the
instigation of his friends, where his ill-judged fondness let me remain
no longer than to learn just enough experience to convince me of the
sordidness of his views, to give me an idea of perfections which my
present situation will never suffer me to reach, and to teach me
sufficient morals to dare to despise what is bad, though it be in a
father.
Thus equipped (as he thought completely) for life, I was carried back
into the country, and lived with him and my mother in a small village,
within a few miles of the county town; where I mixed, at first with
reluctance, among company which, though I never despised, I could not
approve, as they were brought up with other inclinations, and narrower
views than my own. My father took great pains to show me every where,
both at his own house, and at such publick diversions as the country
afforded: he frequently told the people all he had was for his daughter;
took care to repeat the civilities I had received from all his friends
in London; told how much I was admired, and all his little ambition
could suggest to set me in a stronger light.
Thus have I continued tricked out for sale, as I may call it, and
doomed, by parental authority, to a state little better than that of
prostitution. I look on myself as growing cheaper every hour, and am
losing all that honest pride, that modest confidence, in which the
virgin dignity consists. Nor does my misfortune stop here: though many
would be too generous to impute the follies of a father to a child whose
heart has set her above them; yet I am afraid the most charitable of
them will hardly think it possible for me to be a daily spectatress of
his vices without tacitly allowing them, and at last consenting to them,
as the eye of the frightened infant is, by degrees, reconciled to the
darkness of which at first it was afraid.
It is a common opinion, he himself must very well know, that vices, like
diseases, are often hereditary; and that the property of the one is to
infect the manners, as the other poisons the springs of life.
Yet this, though bad, is not the worst; my father deceives himself in
the hopes of the very child he has brought into the world; he suffers
his house to be the seat of drunkenness, riot, and irreligion, who
seduces, almost in my sight, the menial servant, converses with the
prostitute, and corrupts the wife! Thus I, who from my earliest dawn of
reason was taught to think that at my approach every eye sparkled with
pleasure, or was dejected as conscious of superior charms, am excluded
from society, through fear lest I should partake, if not of my father's
crimes, at least of his reproach. Is a parent, who is so little
solicitous for the welfare of a child, better than a pirate who turns a
wretch adrift in a boat at sea, without a star to steer by, or an anchor
to hold it fast? Am I not to lay all my miseries at those doors which
ought to have been opened only for my protection? And if doomed to add
at last one more to the number of those wretches whom neither the world
nor its law befriends, may I not justly say that I have been awed by a
parent into ruin? But though a parent's power is screened from insult
and violation by the very words of Heaven, yet surely no laws, divine or
human, forbid me to remove myself from the malignant shade of a plant
that poisons all around it, blasts the bloom of youth, checks its
improvements, and makes all its flowrets fade; but to whom can the
wretched, can the dependant fly? For me to fly a father's house, is to
be a beggar: I have only one comfort amidst my anxieties, a pious
relation, who bids me appeal to Heaven for a witness to my just
intentions, fly as a deserted wretch to its protection; and, being asked
who my father is, point, like the ancient philosopher, with my finger to
the heavens.
The hope in which I write this is, that you will give it a place in your
paper; and, as your essays sometimes find their way into the country,
that my father may read my story there; and, if not for his own sake,
yet for mine, spare to perpetuate that worst of calamities to me, the
loss of character, from which all his dissimulation has not been able to
rescue himself. Tell the world, Sir, that it is possible for virtue to
keep its throne unshaken without any other guard than itself; that it is
possible to maintain that purity of thought so necessary to the
completion of human excellence, even in the midst of temptations; when
they have no friend within, nor are assisted by the voluntary indulgence
of vicious thoughts.
If the insertion of a story like this does not break in on the plan of
your paper, you have it in your power to be a better friend than her
father to
PERDITA[1].
[1]From an unknown correspondent.
No. 43. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 10, 1759.
The natural advantages which arise from the position of the earth which
we inhabit with respect to the other planets, afford much employment to
mathematical speculation; by which it has been discovered, that no other
conformation of the system could have given such commodious
distributions of light and heat, or imparted fertility and pleasure to
so great a part of a revolving sphere.
It may be, perhaps, observed by the moralist, with equal reason, that
our globe seems particularly fitted for the residence of a being, placed
here only for a short time, whose task is to advance himself to a higher
and happier state of existence, by unremitted vigilance of caution, and
activity of virtue.
The duties required of man are such as human nature does not willingly
perform, and such as those are inclined to delay who yet intend some
time to fulfil them. It was, therefore, necessary that this universal
reluctance should be counteracted, and the drowsiness of hesitation
wakened into resolve; that the danger of procrastination should he
always in view, and the fallacies of security be hourly detected.
To this end all the appearances of nature uniformly conspire. Whatever
we see on every side reminds us of the lapse of time and the flux of
life. The day and night succeed each other, the rotation of seasons
diversifies the year, the sun rises, attains the meridian, declines, and
sets; and the moon every night changes its form.
The day has been considered as an image of the year, and the year as the
representation of life. The morning answers to the spring, and the
spring to childhood and youth; the noon corresponds to the summer, and
the summer to the strength of manhood. The evening is an emblem of
autumn, and autumn of declining life. The night with its silence and
darkness shows the winter, in which all the powers of vegetation are
benumbed; and the winter points out the time when life shall cease, with
its hopes and pleasures.
He that is carried forward, however swiftly, by a motion equable and
easy, perceives not the change of place but by the variation of objects.
If the wheel of life, which rolls thus silently along, passed on through
undistinguishable uniformity, we should never mark its approaches to the
end of the course. If one hour were like another; if the passage of the
sun did not show that the day is wasting; if the change of seasons did
not impress upon us the flight of the year; quantities of duration equal
to days and years would glide unobserved. If the parts of time were not
variously coloured, we should never discern their departure or
succession, but should live thoughtless of the past, and careless of the
future, without will, and perhaps without power, to compute the periods
of life, or to compare the time which is already lost with that which
may probably remain.
But the course of time is so visibly marked, that it is observed even by
the birds of passage, and by nations who have raised their minds very
little above animal instinct: there are human beings whose language does
not supply them with words by which they can number five, but I have
read of none, that have not names for day and night, for summer and
winter.